


The Best of Intentions

by Atri



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark, Gen, Ron-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 04:25:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17439911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atri/pseuds/Atri
Summary: How far would Ron and Hermione go to save their best friend? Where would their choices lead them - to doom or salvation? This is a look at what those two of the Golden Gryffindor Trio can and will do in a world darker than canon: their choices, their journey and the result.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an experiment of mine. The writing style and the tense are not my usual choice, so I hope that you guys will comment and help me along. 
> 
> I planned this to be Ron-centric, with Hermione being the secondary main character. The premise is this: how far would Ron and Hermione go to save their best friend?
> 
> If there are any stories that are truly Ron-centric, then they are few and far between. I, at least, didn't really find good ones in my search. I hope that this experiment will at least be something refreshingly new.

Ron Weasley is twelve when the Wizarding World hails him as a hero. 

For the first time in his life he is not overshadowed by his brothers or by his friends. In the hallways people whisper behind his back, raising him up, giving him titles. He’s the Snake Slayer, the Sword Bearer, Slytherin’s Vanquisher and many other things he doesn’t care to know. This fame he always wished to have has cost him much — too much — and now he can’t escape it. 

It tastes like ashes in his mouth.

There are always people next to him now; he’s never been more alone.

There’s questions now, everywhere. Since he dragged his numb body into the hospital wing, tired, dirty, bloody and clutching Gryffindor’s sword, there’s been questions. First, the teachers; compassionate blue eyes, shocked lamentations and warm hands on his shoulders. Then, the Aurors; steady, calm, business-like and firm. And then, the others; whispers and gossip, pity and awe, his life an entertaining book or play they watch from a distance for their own amusement. 

He can’t look any of them in the eyes. Part of it is shame for his helplessness, part of it anger at their own inaction and some…some of it is fear; fear that they would see the truth in his eyes if they only looked close enough.

Hermione hasn’t woken up yet, a statue in the hospital bed, blessed with the silence of unconsciousness. Perhaps that’s the reason he sits hours by her side, quietly watching, very much aware of the diary hidden among her school books next to the bed. Sometimes he reads to her out of the textbooks — he doesn’t dare touch the diary, of course, and he hasn’t the stomach for any Hogwarts history, so not her favorite history book either — and the words slip out of his mouth without registering in his mind, a background memory as his thoughts twist around, trying to find a way forward.

The auror investigation finishes. Only a few days have passed, though it feels longer to him. The school closes, perhaps forever, at least for a year. Hermione is transferred to Saint Mungo’s, a muggleborn girl, no matter how bright and brilliant is not important at all in the larger scheme of things. The adults have more important things to do, dealing with the fallout. He packs her school books away, slipping the diary into his own pocket. It burns against his side and he has to force himself to not pat it, reassure himself that it’s still there.

Departure day arrives and the school empties, the streams of children like rats leaving a sinking ship. Some go to Hogsmeade, leave with portkeys or the floo. Others board the express perhaps for the last time. 

It is the first time that all of his brothers gather in the same room since the news. Percy’s back is ramrod straight, shoulders back, black bags under his eyes. His reign has been tyrannical since the news, no leniency at all. Fred and George are silent, for once, but there is a cruel glint in their eyes now. He knows that more Slytherins ended up in the hospital wing since the news than in all the months put together before. He knows who is responsible. Their jokes are twisted now, malevolent in a way they never have been before. 

He can’t bring himself to care. 

A better person would.

The empty space between them screams so loudly of her absence that he is glad when his father appears in the headmaster’s office. His mother doesn’t come and he’s glad for it. Silently, Father ushers them through the floo and they’re back home. The twins run up to their room, Percy gives Mother a kiss on the cheek and he, he leaves through the backdoor and into the orchard, sitting down beneath an apple tree. His mother is a shadow of herself; thinner, bleached of color and emotion. He doesn’t want to look at her, fears what would look back.

The days are hot with little rain. He sleeps with the window open. During the night, he hears his parents talking, his mother crying. The twins’ room is ominously silent. He manages to convince Father to let him visit Hermione in Saint Mungo’s if he goes by floo. Her parents aren’t there. He wonders if someone has contacted them at all, wonders if he should send them an owl and let them know. But he’s tired, too tired at the thought of speaking to her parents, meeting them. He doesn’t even know what he’ll tell Hermione when she finally wakes, not to mention her parents. So he doesn’t do anything. He comes every day, though, and sits by her side and thinks. It’s as much to get away from the Burrow as to be near her, the only other one left.

Hermione doesn’t wake for Ginny’s funeral. He would have liked her to be there. 

It’s a small, intimate thing, the funeral. Only family is allowed and a few friends. He sees Dumbledore and McGonagall there and doesn’t look at them. The resentment and anger is too great. They didn’t help Ginny, didn’t save her. They were responsible for her, for all of them, and they weren’t there. He ignores their haggard looks, knows in the back of his mind that the whole Wizarding World is after them, needing someone to blame, and looks back down to the ground. 

The priest drones on and on. He remembers kissing Ginny’s cold dead cheek down there in the Chamber, his final goodbye and suppresses a shudder.

Hermione doesn’t wake for Harry’s funeral either, and he is glad. 

He barely manages to hold onto his temper, not saying a word during the whole thing and staring at the ground. He ignores the Ministry officials, the Minister’s eulogy, ignores the angry words between Hogwarts staff and Ministry, the flashes of cameras. Harry’s body is laid to rest next to his parents’ in Godric’s Hollow and he thinks that that’s the only thing of this funeral that Harry would approve of.

Two weeks later Hermione finally stirs, the potion finished and doing its work. There’s a flurry of activity around her — healers, aurors, finally her parents. He doesn’t know how she manages to convince her parents to let her visit him, later, but she does. 

It is under his apple tree that they sit down and he takes her hand in his, fingers entwining. Her brown eyes have been a dull muddy color since they’ve told her. He doesn’t like it at all. Perhaps that’s why the bluntness that’s always been so much a part of his character finally stirs again with a vengeance after long weeks of dormancy.

“Harry’s not dead,” he whispers, instinctively lowering his voice as his secret of weeks is now set free. It’s been hammering inside his chest, burning in his pocket all this time. 

Carefully, oh so carefully, he takes the diary out and puts it on his knee. Sunshine falls upon it and the golden letters shine brightly. T.M.Riddle. But it’s not his anymore. 

It’s no abomination. 

It’s hope.

Hermione’s fingers tighten painfully around his. He doesn’t flinch. Her eyes sharpen, the muddy brown clearing, mouth in a thin line.

“Tell me.” It could almost be a sigh, but it’s much too forceful for that.

He nods, leans back against the bark of the apple tree, his face only inches away from hers and begins to whisper his story, the air from his words caressing her lips as the forbidden tale escapes him. Of how he managed to enter the Chamber; of how it was too late — Ginny lying on the cold stone floor, Harry’s spirit now trapped in the diary, valiantly standing firm against young Tom Riddle, the Dark Lord Voldemort made flesh again. A situation without hope. Of Harry managing to focus Voldemort’s attention solely on him.

“And then…then I put on the cloak and took Gryffindor’s sword and when His back was turned to me, I rammed it in as far as I could. He died there on that filthy floor.”

“Good riddance.” There is satisfaction in her voice and in her eyes. He feels her words and shivers.

He swallows and licks his dry lips.

“Harry begged me to stab the diary and then, when I hesitated, he begged me to take it to Dumbledore. Hermione,” he breathes, “he was so sure that Dumbledore would do it, would truly kill him. He was so, so certain, Hermione.”

She rests her free hand on the diary, softly, gently. Part of her hand is resting on his knee. It’s warm.

“Harry knows Dumbledore best.” She nods and stares down at the small book. When her head finally lifts, she smiles at him. It’s grim and full of teeth. Her eyes are clear.

It doesn’t need saying.

“We’ll save Harry. We’ll bring him back.” He says it anyway.

“We will.”


	2. Chapter 2

His apple tree becomes the only calm island in a world gone mad. 

It is a refuge that Ron Weasley, new hero, desperately needs. He doesn’t leave the property, doesn’t go to town. He doesn’t do that anymore; doesn’t do people. Not even his own family. Inside the Burrow, it feels like a grave; like Ginny isn’t the only one dead; like she’d taken them with her too. Only Hermione keeps him company, she and Harry. But they’re not people. They’re his. They’re the same. 

Under his apple tree he can pretend. The sun is warm. Apples are ripening above him. Everything is fine. Fine.

It’s fine.

But the world doesn’t stop for him, doesn’t care for little boy heroes or brilliant muggleborn witches. It churns and moves around him, continuing, living.

Demanding.

And sometimes he must give in, must go, must face his new reality.

Still, the only time he goes to Diagon Alley it’s for Harry’s will reading — a will, a will; too young for a will; why, why? — he’s swarmed by the masses as soon as he steps out of the fireplace. Wizards and witches pour out of nowhere, everywhere, touching him, shaking his hand, talking over each other. The snippets of encouragement and pity, of shameless flattery and baseless — not baseless, not baseless, not baseless — accusations fly at him like bludgers, hitting just as hard in a myriad of places.

“… Slytherin’s Bane!”

“…the new Boy-Who-Lived! Oh, how exciting! Wait till I tell my darling Emma!”

“Good work, Mr. Weasley! Good work!”

“Such a tragedy with Harry Potter, that! Such a tragedy!”

“…And he couldn’t even save his own sister! Had I been there I would have…”

“Oh, you poor darling boy!”

He’s never been more thankful for his family as he is in that moment. A wall of redheads surrounds him, pushing the waves of people away. He can breathe again, after a time, the warm, firm hand of Percy guiding him through the crowd, away, away and finally into the dubious safety of Gringotts. He catches the glint of the goblin’s sharp axe in the sunshine, the razor eyes and snarling teeth; turns away before he can shudder.

It’s cold here; cold and uncomfortably silent. His steps echo loudly — bam, bam, bam, bam, bam — and he thinks it’s his heart, racing, alive despite it all. He doesn’t think about Harry’s dead body in the cold, cold earth. He doesn’t.

Harry’s alive.

He is.

He is.

The heavy door slams shut behind him with the finality of a coffin’s lid.

It’s a small gathering. Dumbledore to the side with McGonagall and Hagrid; they look like old people, shoulders hunched, defeated. Hagrid is sobbing loudly, breaking the stillness with his uncontrolled flashes of grief.

Ron averts his eyes. They are uncomfortably dry. He hasn’t cried. Not once.

They slip to the girl at the front. Hermione’s gaze is calm, reflecting his own. She is dressed in muggle clothes, a black dress that could almost be mistaken for robes. Almost. Behind her, her parents — tense, grim and muggle. Her father rests a hand on the back of her seat, not touching.

He wonders — did she cry? Or have her eyes remained as dry as his?

Without a word, he walks over to the open seat beside her, taking her hand in his, squeezing. Somewhere behind him his father, the only one allowed inside, must be sitting down. He doesn’t look back, only forward.

It begins.

And it ends just as swiftly. Painfully so.

Amidst the law terms and twisted sentences that could just as well be a foreign language, so strange, long and confusing do they sound, Harry’s wishes are brief and tragic in their simplicity. 

McGonagall gets the broom, to be given to each next Gryffindor seeker. The teacher’s hands tremble as she takes it, fingers caressing the wooden handle over and over and over again.

Dumbledore takes the pair of woolen socks reverently, opening the small bag of lemon drops and popping one into his mouth. His lips twist; Ron cannot tell if it’s a smile or a grimace.

Hagrid bawls his eyes out when he receives Harry’s photo album and clutches it to his chest. He is inconsolable and must be escorted out of the room.

Then, they are the only ones left.

“Ron, you were my very first friend, my best mate. I leave my wand, Hedwig and half of the gold in my vault to you,” the goblin reads — no inflection, no empathy — but he hears Harry’s voice instead, sees him smiling in that sheepish way of his as if he were guilty because he’s not able to offer Ron more. “I know how it is, not having enough money, not being able to do stuff ‘cause of that. I hope this’ll make things easier for you, mate. Live well.”

Merlin’s soggy underpants — he’s rich! The realization’s so strange, so not Weasley-like, so not Ron that the dizziness hits him with an unexpected strength. His fingers cling to Hermione’s in a futile attempt to find an anchor in this suddenly tumultuous sea of incomprehension.

The goblin continues, uncaring of any effect the words he speaks evoke. He hears it through a layer of dim smoke; listening, acknowledging, not truly grasping what is said.

“Hermione, you’re the best friend a guy could have. Without you I wouldn’t be here to write this will. Hell, you’re probably the reason that I managed to not do something stupid for as long as I did. Whatever happened, you probably warned me off and no doubt I didn’t listen to you. It isn’t your fault, Hermione. I can be a pretty stubborn guy, you know. I leave you my invisibility cloak and the other half of my vault. You’ll be great, I know it, and this’ll help you along. Be happy, Hermione.”

Next to him he hears the intake of a breath. The pressure on his fingers doesn’t change. He doesn’t let her go until the very end, when their parents separate them to go home.

It feels like an ending.

That is, until Hermione grabs his arm, pulls him down so she can whisper in his ear, “I’ll come by. We’ll plan. Wait for me.”

And suddenly the world isn’t spinning beneath his feet. He’s steady again. 

He’s above water.


	3. Chapter 3

His apple tree becomes theirs.

Hermione arrives one summer morning with a list, enough paper that he’s sure somewhere a forest is missing, and a book. Some things, he muses, head against the warm bark of the tree, do not change, no matter how dire the situation. Her blazing purpose is hotter than the sun’s rays and he can’t help but bask in it.

“Some light reading?”

The book doesn’t look that heavy, exactly, but Hermione’s arms are still being pulled down towards the ground.

“Information. Necessary information. But later on that.” She swallows, meets his eyes. “You bring him? We’ve waited enough, I think.”

He nods, feeling the deep dark pit of foreboding opening inside him again. The diary isn’t His anymore. This is Harry, his friend. Still, after everything, it’s feeble comfort. Hermione, of course, had been ready to throw herself into it that first time; completely fearless, determined to the last. He doesn’t have her conviction and sometimes he’s lesser for it.

Her movements are smooth as she takes the quill, hands caressing the leather of the diary before opening it and writing without delay. A smile appears on her face and it is the most luminous thing he has seen in all these dark, hollow weeks. His breath stops, captivated. Pure joy crests over her features, a hidden flower blooming once again; colors sharpen, deepen, unfold — it’s magic.

“He’ll take us in,” she says, and he does not have time to think about it.

Suddenly, vertigo.

The pull is not on his body. It goes deeper than that; much deeper. As the world twists around him, it feels like he’s in free fall; that they both have willingly jumped into the abyss and there’s no going back now.

He kneels in the soft grass and opens his eyes. Hogwarts, but not. A cradle song of comfort, an undertone of death. Students hurrying over the lawn to their next lesson motionless in their actions, statues of lifelike puppets.

“Ron. Hermione.”

Harry’s voice is warm but there is sadness in it too, beside the joy.

“Harry!”

She passes him, flinging herself into the waiting arms of their friend. A tear glistens in the false sunlight. He’s glad that she can cry.

“Mate,” he whispers hoarsely, his steps hesitant. He stretches out his arm. It feels solid. Warm cotton over living flesh.

Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can’t see where it keeps its brain.

Harry’s brain is rotting somewhere in the cold, damp earth of Godric’s Hollow. He decides he doesn’t care, chases away his father’s advice, his left arm around Harry, his right around Hermione, pulling both closer, a warm cocoon of comfort; together again.

Time has no meaning here. He doesn’t want to let go. Here, Hogwarts stands tall, unbowed by tragedy. Here, families have not crumbled. Here, he has his best friends again. No sorrows, nothing real can touch him.

Harry is the one to break the embrace, the one to reproach them.

“You should have taken me to Dumbledore. He would have disposed of the diary,” — of me is left unsaid. “I shouldn’t have asked Ron to do it down in the Chamber. I’m sorry. But now you can still do it. Put an end to this.”

Always the noble one, that self-sacrificing git.

Ron’s eyes narrow. He glances at Hermione and snorts, leaning back. There’s an apple tree here too, strangely enough. The bark is warm, familiar.

“What? Harry James Potter!” The muggleborn witch is a force of nature, usually, but he’s never seen her this fierce, this furious. “You stop that right now! We will save you! No doubt being a…a…disembodied soul stuck in a diary has addled your brains —“

“— mate has no brains left —“

“ — but that’s no reason for you to be suicidal. There must be a way to get you out of this diary and into a body —“

“Yes, like sucking out the life or soul out of someone! I won’t be like Voldemort! I won’t!”

“Nobody asks you to, Harry.” Hermione softens, velvet over steel. “We’ll find a way to get you out, Ron and I. I swear it to you, Harry.”

There’s something horrifyingly menacing — hopeful — in her words. Harry must hear it too.

His friend bites his lower lip, sighs, pleads.

“Hermione, please…”

“Harry.”

“…fine. It is not like I can stop you both.” Harry’s grin is crooked, half-pleased. “But…thank you, thank you both for being my friends.”

Damn it, mate. He coughs away the lump in his throat.

“Eh, no troubles.”

In the questioning that follows Hermione grills his friend like a master chef does a chicken; thoroughly and without mercy. The questions, arrows shooting from a bow; masterfully aimed, quickly drawn. He listens more carefully than he would at school; understands only parts.

They return deep into the afternoon, drenched in sweat from sitting so long in the sun. It makes him shiver.

“So?” He asks. There is no doubt in his mind that Hermione’s questions had been deliberately chosen. He won’t like the answer; he just knows it.

“I think,” she hesitates. Oh Merlin. She nods. “Soul magic.”

“Bloody hell!”

“Ronald! Language!”

“Oh, come on!” The nervous energy of the discovery flows into his legs. He jumps up, paces. Sweat is clinging to his shirt, running down his face. He can’t stop walking. “This is soul magic you’re talking about.” Even in his agitation he doesn’t forget to lower his voice. “Unforgivables-soul magic. Deepest, darkest magic in the world, soul magic. I’m allowed to be a bit nervous, you know!”

“You’re hysterical.” She’s completely matter-of-fact. Nonplussed. Bloody muggleborn.

“And you’re not nearly concerned enough! This is dangerous. Not just for us, but for Harry too. For our families. You didn’t grow up with this, with tales of what the Dark Arts can do — not only to those they are used on, but to their users too. Torture, death, madness…”

Hermione is still, unmoving, too bloody calm.

“I’m aware. I researched it, of course.”

He pauses, snorts, “Researched it, she says.”

“Yes,” her mouth is tense, eyes unflinchingly on his. “I researched it. Of course it’s dangerous. Of course there’s a risk. We’re talking about a diary that sixteen-year-old Voldemort made. It was never going to be easy or safe. But it’s worth it. For Harry.”

He closes his eyes, feels the vertigo again. He’s at the edge, knows the stones crumbling down beneath his feet. He just has to step back, into safety, into the usual comfort of what he knows, what his family stood for for centuries. The Light is beckoning him, alluring in its familiarity.

His family is broken, won’t ever be the same again. He opens his eyes. Hermione is still there, patient, waiting. She won’t fault him for chickening out, for backing out on this insane endeavor. That girl is too bloody knowing, too understanding by far. And she’ll still do it; he can see it as clear as day that she’ll do this even without him. She researched it. She doesn’t bloody know what she’s doing, that brilliant, genius muggleborn witch.

He knows: there is greatness inside her; she can bring the world to its knees.

A part of him howls in mourning for what he’s about to do. He’s too Weasley not to feel guilty for this. He’s also too Weasley to not do this. His friends need him, they do, and he can’t turn his back.

So he nods and flings himself down into the abyss; this time knowingly, willingly. Fuck.

“Yeah, I’m in.”

Her blinding, relieved smile shouldn’t feel so good, shouldn’t be as reassuring as it is. She reaches for the book she brought with her.

“Hogwarts is closed. We need new schools, better information, the right kind of information.”

Oh bloody hell.


	4. Chapter 4

Life that summer goes by in flashes of research and preparation. Sometimes also panic, for him. Hermione is completely unperturbed, naturally.

The tome she brought with her that first time is something they pour over the following days, over and over, discussing, arguing. Sometimes he comes close to yelling. He puts his foot down. No assassin-free for all-unplottable Canadian magic school for them. Nope. The other schools range from utterly bizarre — Centaur Cuisine Magical Institute; really? — to too specialized or without the necessary subjects offered.

“What about this one?” The book is self-updating, the information new.

He leans forward, narrows his eyes, reads.

“Masada Institute of Magic…esoteric knowledge…ancient magical disciplines…combat magic…divination…hardest curricula…accepts primarily students with Jewish heritage and high marks…” He pauses. “Sounds promising, but they won’t accept someone like me, and you have high marks but —“

“— it won’t be a problem,” she interrupts him, bites her lower lip, averts her eyes and sighs. “It won’t be a problem, not for me. Besides, it’s better than Australia.”

“Australia?”

She nods.

“I didn’t tell my parents what happened last year with the stone. But this time…”

“…this time you couldn’t keep it quiet.”

“No,” she agrees, sighs again. She looks tired, burdened. He wonders if he looks any better. “They were already told too much when I woke up and…well, my family’s always been a bit…sensitive when it comes to persecution. My parents’ first instinct was to get me, us, as far away from it all as possible, especially after it turned out that the danger wasn’t only an abstract thing.”

“It’s the sane thing to do, yeah?” To protect their daughter; it’s not something he blames the Grangers for. It’s the responsible thing to do. Would Ginny be still alive if his parents had reacted that way? They knew about the incidents in school, had been told about what happened at the end of his first year. They had done nothing. He chases the thought away, disliking it. He loves his parents. They’re good parents; they are.

“Maybe. Still doesn’t make this easier. But it doesn’t matter. Hogwarts is closed. We have to go to school somewhere.”

“I won’t be able to go with you.” Perhaps that is her plan, his mind whispers. He imagines: ancient magic at her fingertips, rapture in her eyes; Hermione in the eye of the storm, wand blazing; beautiful, magnificent. She’ll excel. It’s such a bad, bad idea.

“No,” she agrees and he just knows, knows that she already has a plan for him too. He also knows he probably won’t like it, not one bit.

She bites her lip again, as she has done for so many days now, and he worries that she’ll chew it until it bleeds bright red.

“Durmstrang.”

Bloody hell.

He feels himself go pale, go cold. He knows what he’s agreed to, knew that this was coming; still — so soon? He feels as if he’s drowning already, mired in the Dark Arts before he’s even touched a new wand.

“My parents won’t ever allow it.” His lips are dry; he licks them. “Besides, no doubt Malfoy will be there. You think I’ll be able to not smash his face in if he says something? You won’t be there to stop me.”

“Why’d you think I’d stop you?” she asks and he stares at her, wonders how they managed to arrive at this point, knows there’s no going back. Damn it. His lips twist up. He’s smiling. It isn’t funny, nothing is. 

Hermione continues, “And your parents…you’re a pureblood, Durmstrang will happily accept Britain’s new hero.” She taps the contact form for Durmstrang in the book, eyes him slyly. “Better to ask forgiveness than permission.”

He frowns but then nods with a sigh. One day, she’ll be the death of him; he just knows it. He takes the quill from her hand and begins filling in the gaps in the form.

The acceptance letter arrives a few days after. His family doesn’t take it well, but not the way he expected. His mother pales even further; a charcoal illustration in a book — flat, dead, unremarkable. She doesn’t say a word, just silently stands up and disappears upstairs. He doesn’t see her for days. 

His father has that sad, disappointed glint in his eyes, but doesn’t say anything, simply accepting his decision. Perhaps defeating — not killing, not killing — a Dark Lord’s shade gives him leeway that way. The new hero; the worst sort of villain.

“Moving up in the world, eh, Ronniekins? Good for you.” He feels like a Slytherin in the crosshairs of the twins. From then on, he never forgets to turn the lock when he goes to sleep.

Only Percy puts a hand on his shoulder, supporting, and offers to go with him to pick up his school supplies. He’s never truly liked Percy before; he’s never felt closer to him than he does now.

Preparing for Durmstrang takes all his time and what time he has left, if any, is taken up by Hermione. She, too, is accepted quickly to her new school, unsurprisingly enough. The coming separation hangs like a dark, threatening cloud in the distance, coming ever closer.

Percy keeps his promise, taking him to Diagon Alley. There’s no lack of money now in his pockets. He thinks of Harry, thinks of the unmoving student illusions in that fake, fake, fake Hogwarts and only buys the necessary things, doesn’t splurge. Durmstrang’s school uniform reminds him too much of freshly spilled blood. He puts it away quickly, and they continue on to Ollivander’s.

The first time he grasps his new white, polished wand, a cold stream of water flows down his back; chilly but pleasantly refreshing in the summer heat. A few silver sparks escape its tip, floating lazily in the dust-filled air of the shop. Ollivander is silent for long moments.

“Aspen, thirteen inches, with a core of rougarou hair,” he finally speaks, his eyes far too knowing, studying Ron; a potion specimen in a glass jar, “very good for charms and the more…esoteric kinds of magic. A wand of change. Indeed, I expect that we will see you do great things, Mr. Weasley. Oh yes, great things.”

It sounds more like a condemnation than anything else. Ollivander’s words echo constantly in his mind that day and in the days to come.

His new textbooks are all in Russian. Russian is a bitch to learn, even with potion help. Learning seems to be a lot in his future. He’s not a good student, never had much of a will to be one, doesn’t have it now. But then he thinks of Harry, trapped, accepting, suicidal; of Hermione, blazing, tragically breathtaking in her focus; and he knows that there’s no other way.

He likes the Russian swearwords. They fit him very well. His mother wouldn’t scold him if he swears in Russian; his mother hasn’t spoken a single word to him since the letter.

The day of parting arrives. Hermione hugs him with a reassuring ferocity and something inside him settles. She kisses him on the left cheek; his face grows hot. His hair already clashes ghastly with the bloody uniform of Durmstrang; he doesn’t need his face adding to it. He pulls her closer to his chest, inhales her scent. Hedwig hoots from the tree branch above them; it’s almost like Harry is here too.

“I have to go,” he whispers and feels her nod.

“Write.” It’s as much a plea as a command.

“We’ll be fine.” They will. They will.

Reluctantly, he releases her, turns, walks down the hill, leaving her standing beneath their apple tree. She’ll board some muggle flying machine in a few days. They’ll be continents apart. He’ll write. He’ll write very often.

Above him, wings displace air. Hedwig lands on his shoulder. He hasn’t been able to find Scabbers. Harry’s owl will be his only friend going in. Hermione has the diary.

He straightens, clenches his teeth, feels his jaw grow rigid. His family surrounds him, silent, as he holds his trunk in his left hand, Hedwig on his shoulder, the portkey in his right. The world twists around him. He thinks he hears his mother cry out — goodbye? I love you? Never come back? — but he can’t discern the words.

He leaves his family, leaves Britain behind.

Durmstrang awaits.


	5. Chapter 5

Ron Weasley is thirteen when he first sees the dour castle that is Durmstrang Institute of Magic. Surrounded by small lakes and high mountains the castle — four stories high, black stone and tall walls — sprawls like a tired old man under the gray sky on a bed of green grass. It fits its reputation of being a stronghold of the Dark Arts, being just as bleak and dark as that magic. He almost grimaces, feels his new haircut and the lack of hair keenly, and steels himself like he’s going into battle.

Maybe he is.

His new sleeping place is a small, claustrophobic room with the bare necessities: bed, desk and chair, wardrobe and a tiny bathroom with a shower.

“You will be able to move to a better room if you meet the necessary criteria such as academic advancement,” his guide, a tall, grim older boy, tells him tonelessly. He’s not introduced himself and Ron hasn’t asked. “Come, you have to take the entrance tests and choose electives.”

What follows are two weeks of hell. Test after test after test, so that at the end of it all he feels his thoughts slow, his brain tire. Some he manages alright — Transfiguration, Charms, Herbology, even Potions — but in Defense he fails miserably. 

He wants to smash the face of the Defense teacher in, wants to make him stop looking at Ron as if he’s vermin, not worth anything; knows that his face is bright red with fury. It’s his newfound restraint, amassed over the last few months, that saves him from doing something stupid. Instead, he takes the fury, takes the indignation and pushes it down, pushes it inside until it fuels him. He straightens his shoulders and silently faces the teacher.

Finally, the teacher, a strange half-smirk on his too young pale face, nods, “Good, Gospodin Weasley. Good. Though I suggest that you learn at least a few additional shields and curses as soon as possible. You will need them soon, I suspect.” It’s vaguely threatening; perhaps more so because it’s said in Russian.

He does need them soon — and doesn’t have them. As it turns out, honor duels at Durmstrang are a thing. He doesn’t know what the reason for it is — there are plenty he can think of: he’s a Weasley, the new Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter’s friend — but he’s a target, oh yes. Someone knocks into him in the hallways? Honor duel. He says something? Honor duel. He can’t refuse, his Weasley pride and his reputation, meager as it is, wouldn’t take it. So he goes, he duels and he quickly learns to keep his temper locked away deep inside, letting it simmer and fuel him.

The honor duels are over quickly, always him on the losing side and in the infirmary. As long as he’s not dead or crippled, the teachers won’t interfere. Honor duels in the official dueling rings strengthen the character and honor of the students, or so they say. He knows, though, that the only thing strengthened is his pain tolerance.

His healer, most of the time, is an older student named Alona. She’s beautiful; dark-haired, pale-skinned and the thing he likes most, her compassionate blue eyes. It’s the very first time someone looks at him with some kind of positive emotion here. He tears up and hopes she’ll think it the pain.

“Oh, Ronik; again?” She says it with a sigh in her voice and he feels ashamed that he can’t keep out of the infirmary even for a few days in a row, looks down. It probably doesn’t help that she calls him `Ronik`, as affectionate as it is meant to be. “Not that I mind the practice. But…you still don’t want me to talk to my friend? He’s good in Defense, good at fights and he’ll not mind taking you on.”

The pride to do it all alone, to manage without others — he doesn’t do people — is strong, but the worry in Alona’s eyes is stronger, a mighty wind carrying away all his doubts, all his pride. He can think clearly again, acknowledges what he’s known for weeks now. He needs help. If it were just him, that would be another matter. But Hermione’s counting on him. Harry’s counting on him. He won’t let them down and so he nods, just once.

Alona’s relieved smile is blinding.

__________________________________________________________________________

Hermione’s first letter arrives early one morning. Outside, it’s snowing again. Hedwig melts into the white landscape, hoots tiredly and scarfs down what food he manages to find at this hour.

He reads:

_Dear Ron,_

_I hope this letter finds you well at Durmstrang. Thank you for writing me about your successful arrival at school. I did worry, but it’s good to know that you have adjusted and are doing well. It sounds like a hard curriculum, but I agree with you that it’s promising for the Project, especially Ancient Runes and Rituals. With whom are you rooming? Is Malfoy around? How do you get along with other students? Your letter was so short on details. Really, Ron, I know you don’t like to write, but it’s the only way we can communicate!_

_I’m doing well. And school is just so interesting here!_

_Masada is very hot and dry. There are so many people here! All from different countries all over the world. It is just fascinating! There are courses in English, of course, but the main language is Hebrew and I must say that it will take a while for me to become fluent even with the language potion. Something about writing from right to left always catches me up short. I’ll adapt eventually, I suppose._

_The curriculum here is pretty intense too, with both muggle and magical studies. I have taken all the Hogwarts classes, of course, and also Arithmancy, Artifacts and Creation together with its muggle equivalents. I hope to add others when the opportunity presents itself, but I was advised that it would be better to deal with the standard classes first. With the magics you are learning, we’ll have a good basis for further development. If I hurry a bit and focus, I believe I can be at the English O.W.L.S. level in roughly a year, a year and a half. At that time I’ll have access to the more advanced part of the library here — which is huge, by the way! I wish you could see it._

_Will you be home for Christmas? I won’t be in Britain. My parents have bought a house in Haifa and insist that I spend the holidays at home. I hope to convince them to allow me to visit you over summer. I’ll also try to come up with a better way for us to communicate. Poor Hedwig was exhausted when she arrived with your letter. No wonder, she must have flown across all of Europe and the sea too!_

_I hope your lessons are fun for you and you are studying well, even without me there by your side. Keep safe, Ron, and write. Our friend tells you hello too and wishes you well. He’s doing fine, considering the circumstances._

_Be well,_

_Hermione_


	6. Chapter 6

The magic flows like quicksilver down his fingers, the smooth white wand resting familiarly in his hand like an old, good friend. His teeth clench together. The roar of voices around him grow muffled, their excitement, their bloodlust companions filling the ring with their own kind of tension and energy.

He stops in his inner ring, the small circle bloodied by many a Durmstrang student, he among them. His opponent is an older boy; muscular, tall and with a grudge. It’s the usual fare.

He raises his wand in a salute, watches the other boy do the same and meets the eyes of his opponent; pale blue and focused.

The rituals must be observed. It’s only polite, after all.

The expected mental attack slams viciously against his meager shields. He feels them buckle, imagines the insidious dark tendrils of his opponent’s spell slither down into his mind, reaching, and turns all the raw fury that’s been festering deep inside him upon the attacker, sliding upon the open channels with all the subtlety of a raging bull. Fast and aggressive; he feels his fury batter the older boy’s solid shields, feels them bend, break. A tidal wave of violence washes over the foreign mind, unfocused. His opponent flinches but keeps standing.

The dueling orb outside the ring turns green, giving the signal to start fighting, no matter that the battle has begun long ago; he has been at war since the day he first stepped into this school.

The other’s movements are quick, abrupt in their pragmatism, twirling his wand in a circle; attack spell; bullet. He twists his own wand in front of his body, angles it down.

“Zashitt,” he whispers, imagines that red hot fury of his pouring down his wand, a protective maelstrom of magic enveloping him. It’s not a moment too soon. The other’s magic bullet slams into his shield, magical energies of red and yellow exploding in a flash of burning white. He groans, feeling the power, his wand a hungry monster taking its due in energy.

He can’t stay on the defensive; he won’t hold out. He’s lasted longer than ever before already.

He glances at his opponent, notices the ring on his finger once more. It’s dark blue — lapis lazuli, he knows. Most likely physical and mental defense. Tricky. No active shield. Doable.

He waits. The shield churns in front of him, visible only by feeling. His will is absolute as he takes the energies fully under control, bends them until all run in the same circles, the same spirals. Not long now. The other’s wand flashes backwards — double the attack, double the power — and then forwards. The spell moves as fast as lightning, a bright malevolent dark light too fast to stop. 

He’s ready. His tendrils twine with the spell, lovingly embracing it, moving it past him, adding the magic from the shield. His wand glows, star fire on its tip, as he twirls around his own axis, teeth showing, lips in a satisfied snarl, and hurls the combined magic right back.

Boom. The wind knocks him back, almost out of his ring, almost to defeat. But he grits his teeth, leans forward. His eyes look up, aware too late of the second spell that flings him out of the ring.

The pain is pitiful compared to the defeat.

The orb leaps into the air, hovers like a golden sun over his opponent, bathing him in victory, but also laying bare his injuries. White bones stick out among red blood, flesh raw and open. Blue eyes watch him as he cradles his own broken arm against his chest, and though there is anger in them, Ron also sees a kind of very grudging respect. He lost, but it was close. Had he been able to remain in the ring a second longer that golden light would have been shining upon him.

His…acquaintances? Fellow students? Friends? Friends. His friends are waiting for him on the sidelines. Alona’s wand begins moving before he reaches them and sits down. A flask of potion is pushed into his hand and he swallows the bitter concoction without protest, feels the healing energies of Alona’s magic sooth the fierce pain in his body, hears the snap and crack of mending bone. He feels both tired and too awake, a jittery tremble upon his limbs as his mind tells him to move, to fight, body responding even as he knows it’s over. For now.

Viktor grunts once in satisfaction, arms crossed. His tutor eyes him, nods.

“Come,” he says and turns around, expecting Ron to follow.

“But come by after. I’ll make us a celebration dinner in my rooms,” Alona calls out to them. She knows better than to stop Viktor, who is as unstoppable as the winter winds that blow around Durmstrang. Ron now knows better too, after weeks under the older boy’s patronage, and follows.

The air outside is bitter-cold, razor-sharp and more cutting than any spells flung in duels. New snow is blown in small gusts up into the evergreen trees, heavily laden with it from the blizzard the weekend before. Viktor reaches into his bottomless bag and pulls out two brooms.

“Firebolts. Good brooms. Fast. Let’s fly, Ron.” Monosyllabic as ever, Viktor doesn’t wait for his agreement, gets on his firebolt and flies off into the direction of the school’s broom racing track.

For a moment, he looks after his tutor, marvels how easily and lightly the older boy maneuvers around the trees, blasting up the snow behind him in a white fountain of snowflakes. Then, he follows, cautiously, then braver. The firebolt handles like a dream. A year ago, he wouldn’t have been able to even touch a broom like this, let alone fly it or buy it. His vault is now filled. He’s rich. He could buy himself a firebolt. If he wanted to. He wants. He wants. Harry wouldn’t mind. He knows that.

But he, Ron, would mind. It’s Harry’s gold still.

He speeds up, the trees are green flashes around him and then they’re on the track, Viktor far ahead. Small red glowing orbs mark the path, Gryffindor red, and turn into a red line the faster he goes. His body grows numb, the biting winds now part of him as he leans forward, mind emptying, focusing on the path ahead. The track twists and turns like a snake as he dives under fallen trees, skims over the thin ice of the frozen lakes with his shoes and makes a sharp turn as Viktor leads him to the high difficulty racing track of Durmstrang, into the mountain passes and crevices.

The sharp grey lines of the mountain walls reach into the equally grey sky, surrounding him from all sides, squeezing the air between them. Then, Viktor twists in the air, a barrel roll to the side and into a small, almost unnoticeable gap. He’s off the path, but Ron follows him still, perhaps even a bit curious when his mind makes the effort to release the indifference that has gripped him.

It’s well worth it.

He feels the warmth before he sees it, gentle and kind as it gathers around him, a mother’s hug, a welcome home. The cave is larger at the bottom, smaller farther up, the skylight a hole in the distance, grey and gloomy. Steam hovers over the calm water of the small pond, moss around its edges. A few trees, bowed, reaching for the sky, dot the small patches of earth around the pond.

Viktor is already undressing. He follows suit, a hiss of satisfaction escaping him as he lowers himself into the water.

“Catch.”

The red apple is small, not at all like the apples back home, but as he bites into it, juice overflows, down his chin and into the water. A bit sweet, but with a bite.

He isn’t trembling anymore.

“Next time,” Viktor says, “you will win.”

Ron believes him.

__________________________________________________________________________________

Letters from home are as scarce as sunshine at Durmstrang. Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, the first letter he gets is from Percy.

_Dear Ronald,_

_as I promised you before your departure, I have taken it upon myself to inform you of the happenings at home. It is fortuitous that I have been able to convince our parents to allow me to floo to my new school every day instead of choosing a boarding school. Mother is not yet her old self. She has been visiting Ginny’s grave almost every day until I and Father managed to convince her otherwise. Now, she visits two times a week. Do not concern yourself, Ronald. She is doing better. I promise. She even asked about you during breakfast this morning and I promised to convey her best wishes to you._

_Father has never before been as respected in the Ministry as now. He has been promoted to Deputy of the Investigation Department. I have not seen him as passionate as this even with his muggle contraptions, and my acquaintances in the Ministry say that the Head of the Department plans to retire in a few years and is grooming Father as his successor. It is prestigious work. I have included with this letter a page from the Daily Prophet. I imagine that you will not have access to British publications in Durmstrang, though perhaps this case will be of some international interest still and has been published in your local newspapers. Father is heading the investigation into the Azkaban Massacre, though naturally nobody but Malfoy and his ilk seem all that concerned with Death Eaters being torn up by some wild beast. Personally, I find the Daily Prophet’s interpretation ridiculous. How, tell me, would a werewolf or a wild beast even get to Azkaban? It wasn’t even the full moon. Nevertheless, the Azkaban Massacre is still concerning and it is good that you are so far away from events as you are, safe at your new school. I would still like to hear your opinion on the matter._

_Please do write back, Ronald. I am most curious how your studies are progressing and whether you have made some new friends. With the twins at Beauxbatons and not writing — there has not been a single complaint from the school; most concerning — and you at Durmstrang and not writing either, I do feel concerned from time to time. Please, keep in contact._

_You brother,_

_Percy_


	7. Chapter 7

Perpetual twilight softens the bloody color of the Crimson Auditorium into a shade of spilt old blood. The full-wall windows reflect the silent pupils of Durmstrang, all unmoving statues in their comfortable red leather seats as they prepare to carefully listen to the teacher. Professor Artyom Rakov doesn’t tolerate disrespect. Not that anyone would be foolish enough to disrespect him or his teachings. Nobody wants to be banned from Dark Arts.

Ron taps the quill next to the parchment on the little side table next to his own leather seat, watches it rise, ready to write down whatever wisdom the professor deems to impart this morning. His mouth is dry, his lips the rough texture of sharp stones and desert sand. He suspects — knows — what day it is, has heard rumors about when Professor Rakov would begin teaching it. The last few months have been all mental exercises and physical exertions, preparations so grueling that their group has dwindled to a dozen few.

Professor Rakov stands tall and proud, hands clasped behind his back, authority and discipline in every line of his body. Despite sitting all the way up here, in the last row, Ron sees it all with perfect clarity: the open black robe with crisp lines and severity; the uniform-like jacket, a vibrant red, the two rows of golden buttons gleaming in the dull light of the room like stars. Chinstrap beard, black, his hair shorn short at the sides, slicked back on top and into a small ponytail. The professor is as meticulous and sharp in his dress and image as he is in everything else.

“Welcome,” he finally speaks, “to your first lesson of the Dark Arts.” His words are quiet, barely above a whisper, but they echo loudly, a condemnation of inevitability to them all. “You have fulfilled the requirements in the preparatory course and thus have been deemed stable for continued education in this sphere of magical knowledge. We will begin with theory and once I have deemed you ready, you will begin applying your knowledge in practical exercises.”

The professor pauses, gaze sweeping over the handful of students foolish enough to be here.

“Tell me — what are the Dark Arts? What is dark magic?” There is silence. “Anyone?”

“Power.”

“A simplistic answer, but not without truth, I suppose. Yes, the Dark Arts can be powerful. But what, I ask you, is the nature of dark magic?”

“It corrupts the soul,” comes another try from the row below Ron’s. His fellows are getting braver.

The professor’s eyebrow rises, his lips twisting up into the ghost of a smile.

“Ah, yes, the soul. What plebeians call soul magic is indeed, by the larger magical community, categorized as dark magic. But here we come to another question that must be answered: what is the soul? I see that none of you can answer, and that is not surprising as nobody so far has an answer to that. It is more a question of philosophy than of magical theory, the answer undefined. Some say that the soul is an amalgam of your memories, base personality and morals, among other things. Dark magic thus changes your `soul`, twisting it. Great wizards, self-proclaimed Light magic users, would tell you, for example, that using the Killing Curse makes your soul fragile, breaking it due to the great crime you commit.”

Ron clenches the armrests, fingers white, leather taunt beneath his fingers like reddened skin. This is what it has come to: he’s playing with his soul, endangering it all for his goal. He remembers Harry’s smile, the green eyes so damnably accepting of his fate, and grits his teeth. He will not let fate dictate their future.

“I will tell you different,” the professor continues. “I will tell you what we know for certain. Dark magic is magic that amplifies emotions. It is fueled by them just as it fuels them in return. Some of you have heard about so called Light magic like the Patronus charm. The Patronus cannot be cast without using positive emotions and memories, feeling them deeply. By our definition, the Patronus is dark magic too. Why, then, does the larger magical community not categorize it as such?”

“Because it uses positive emotions?”

“Exactly, Gospodin Gordon. Though the effects are the same. Remember these, the cardinal rules of the Dark Arts: sacrifice, temptation, amplification. Why is killing someone with the Killing Curse an unforgivable crime, but levitating them out of the window and letting them fall to their death not dark magic? I will tell you. When you cast the Killing Curse, you need to feel that urge, want for your victim to die with all your being. This need you sacrifice for the Killing Curse to work, thus amplifying the effect of the magic and the emotion behind it. Once cast successfully, you will experience a rush like never before. Some say it is better than sex. You will want to do it again and again and again to experience that rush again. The exact need that you used will be gone, but the Rush will remain, urging you ever onwards in a feedback loop. That, essentially, is what the Dark Arts are.”

Ron swallows. His fingers are cold, sweat on his forehead, as his mind feverishly applies the professor’s explanation to all that he knows. It’s so logical, explains why so many dark wizards become what they are.

“Dark wizards — from now on I will use that term for practitioners of the Dark Arts — feel most deeply. You cannot be a dark wizard if you have the emotional range of a teaspoon. Depending on the spell you want to cast, either negative or positive emotions are used. But these emotions, once sacrificed, are forever gone. True, they are amplified while you cast, but are used up once the spell is done. What remains is the Rush. Dark wizards are thus prone to looking for sharp experiences and emotions. To be a dark wizard is to walk on the edge. Unfortunately, many dark wizards, especially those who use the Dark Arts just to feel the Rush again and again, forgetting and ignoring everything and everyone around them, turn to senseless murder and destruction, breaking social mores. The Rush controls them. They do not control the Rush. Old wizarding bloodlines, which are known for having used dark magic before, are partly more susceptible to the Rush than, say, muggleborns or half-bloods, but also have a greater affinity for the Dark Arts.”

The lecturing tone suddenly disappears, the air in the room crackling with barely held back menace. Professor Rakov grins, all sharp teeth and wolfish predator.

“If any of you ever become failed dark wizards — those who let the Rush control you — I’ll hunt you down myself and put you down like rabid dogs. It won’t be slow.”

Professor Rakov tilts his head, nods.

“I see we understand each other perfectly. Now then, let us continue with our first and most important lesson: you control the Rush. It does not control you. We’ll schedule individual lessons later, but first let me welcome you as fellow practitioners of the Dark Arts. You will never experience a magic more powerful, more fulfilling or more versatile than you will learn here.”

___________________________________________________________________________

He’s back from his first scheduled individual lesson and he’s trembling from head to toe, the physical pleasure a delectable pain that manifests most stiffly in a way he’s never experienced quite like this. He’s a boy in puberty, no stranger to sexual pleasure. The limited experiences he’s had on his lonesome never felt like this here now. He’s had a taste now, the juice of a ripened fruit, forbidden for all his life, now maddeningly on his tongue. He’s parched, wanting, damned.

Sweet agony courses through his veins and he screams, thankful that every room in Durmstrang is isolated by magic so nobody can hear his weakness.

“You control the Rush. You control the Rush. You control the Rush. It does not control you.” He continues the mantra, remembers what Professor Rakov told him. He cannot take measures yet, cannot relieve himself, must let the Rush work through him, must let it settle. Resistance training, the professor told him. Resistance training that he sorely needs. He has a great affinity for the Dark Arts. He, the Weasley, with roots of Black.

He rips his clothes from his body, the soothing cold of the room only marginally helping, and turns to the punching bag he hung in the corner the day before with a howl. His fists crash into it, flesh coating itself in the gloves of red blood. The pain feels good, different than the Rush. He concentrates on that.

It takes hours until he allows himself glorious relief and then a cold shower. By the end, he’s tired, mind sluggishly calm in the aftermath. He takes the letter he’s read so many times now, the first from his mother, and wonders, is glad that she doesn’t know. The cookies taste like home.

_Dear Ron,_

_I do hope that you’re keeping safe and warm in Siberia. It must be so cold there at this time of year! I know that we, your father and I, weren’t as supportive as we should have been with your new school. I am sorry, Ronald. You must understand that none of our family ever went to Durmstrang, but Professor Dumbledore assures us that it is a learning institution of the highest standard and that you are in good hands there._

_Have you found new friends? Is there a girl you like? Please, do write your father and I. We miss you so much. We understand why you didn’t come home for Christmas, and Charlie told us that you’ll visit him in Romania this summer, but please, Ron, do spend a few weeks with us too. This is your home. You are always welcome here, no matter what._

_I added a small package with all your favorite food. Goodness knows what they’re feeding you in Siberia. Do remember to eat well, Ron!_

_We, your father and I, love you._

_Love,_

_Mom and Dad_


	8. Chapter 8

Draco Malfoy’s arm is a bloody mess. White bone, exposed from its mantle of flesh and blood, rises at an unnatural angle high into the air like some kind of ugly crimson mountain in winter. The former Slytherin’s eyes are hazy with pain, but they still glare at Ron.

He feels the shadow of satisfaction wash over him for an instant, warm and insidious, at seeing his Hogwarts enemy brought low. Then, he looks and only sees a boy in pain, all alone here in this dark, cold corridor of Durmstrang. Had he not gone this way on a whim, he would not have stumbled upon this pitiful pile of flesh, beaten and left to his fate by some unknown assailants.

His head tilts to the side, ponders.

Malfoy’s a little shit. That Ron sees him for the first time now, even though they’ve both been at Durmstrang for almost a year, doesn’t make it less true. If he hasn’t been an asshole to Ron, no doubt he’s been one to someone else.

He doesn’t need the problems. His steps are calm and unhurried as he passes Malfoy. Something shifts behind him, a little sound of agony he recognizes well involuntarily echoing in the air. Damn it. He doesn’t need this. At all.

With a sigh he takes out his wand. Swish and flick. Ah, memories. Fabric shifts as the body rises behind him and he continues on his way, now going left and not right, heading for the familiar halls of the infirmary. Alona should be in.

“Ronik! What happened?” Her wand is already out and moving, the instinctual urge of a healer to help smoothly transitioning into trained actions. 

“Found him in one of the corridors. One of those in the eastern wing.” He cancels the levitation, watches Malfoy fall onto the bed faster than he probably should. Oops. Well, he’ll survive. The beds are comfortable. He knows that better than anyone.

“It is very good then that you brought him here. Merlin knows how long he would have laid there until someone found him.” 

He’s so grateful Alona doesn’t assume this is his work; he would have.

Ron doesn’t know why he stays, why he watches Alona heal his Hogwarts enemy. He doesn’t flinch when bones snap back into place, when pink and white replaces ravaged flesh. Alona puts Malfoy together like a hand puppet, connecting this part and that, mending and soothing. Familiar cold eyes clear. He watches them focus, watches them gain that look again and knows it for what it is: disdain.

It would be better if Ron goes now, before his old nemesis can return to his usual demeanor. Too late. Malfoy’s Malfoy. The habitual sneer settles upon his lips like an old friend. It begins.

“What are you looking at, Weasel? Don’t tell me that you now think you’re a proper pureblood just because you’re here at Durmstrang. You’ll get yours yet.”

Ron snorts, a faint smile on his face, knows better than to answer, does it anyway.

“You tell me, Malfoy, what I’m looking at. I’m not the one lying in a hospital bed right now. You got yours already, eh? Opened your mouth too wide again?”

Malfoy’s face reddens, ugly lines twisting it into something hard and brutal.

Ron turns to leave. Perhaps that parting shot was a bit too much…

“Not as wide as your bitch sister did while she sucked me off.”

Don’t do it, his mind whispers. Don’t do it.

But Ron’s got a problem. His imagination is just too good. Involuntarily, the lines of the stone wall in front of him shift like vines into a picture so life-like that he cannot look away: Ginny on her knees, her red hair dripping like blood down her body; Malfoy standing above her, the self-satisfaction of a monster upon his lips, as he holds the Sword of Gryffindor tightly in his grasp, driving it ever deeper with each of his thrusts.

Ron’s wand is in his hand before he can even think, rage upon its tip spitting sparks around the room. His mouth speaks the words; he cannot hear them. The spell leaves his wand, an angry red. What did he cast? The idle thought is just as numb as he is, a vague tiny intellectual curiosity in a sea of strange grey numbness and vivid, red, arousing euphoria.

Malfoy’s eyes are wide, a deer unmoving in the face of oncoming danger, prey.

The spell is a hungry beast. It eats away the protective barrier around the hospital bed, reaching, tearing, and only grows brighter. Flesh Eater. Ah, that was the name. Ron’s gotten good at casting it; always at a dummy, though. He’s seen the results on humans in a pensive; messy, bloody. The Professor’s thorough that way, serious about teaching them well.

Huh. Ron tilts his head. The Flesh Eater is kind of beautiful, all red tentacles and twisting flowers. A bit like the aurora in the nighttime sky above Durmstrang.

Suddenly, pain flares sharply in his left cheek. He turns his head in that direction, his body sluggish, and sees the terrified blue eyes of Alona. Her face is large, coming closer, and then her warm, warm lips are upon his, her sharp nails digging painfully into his scalp. And then her hot tongue is invading, furious in its agitation.

The emotions hit him like a bludger, all-encompassing, a rush of immense proportions. The Rush. His mind grows clear enough to think, eyes darting to Malfoy, seeing the terror in that bastard, remembering Ginny. The Flesh Eater is almost through. Malfoy will die a painful, horrible death. It is so tempting. So, so, so tempting. It will be so satisfying. Oh.

Their eyes meet. Pale grey. Wide. The sudden understanding that he will truly, really die. Fear, agony, the tremble in his fingers. The helplessness.

Suddenly, Malfoy’s a true boy again.

You control the Rush. It doesn’t control you.

It’s painful, horribly difficult to cut the connection to the Flesh Eater, to let it fizzle out, the hungry beast returning to sleep once more. But Ron manages. He focuses on Alona’s lips, her tongue, focuses on her hands, one up — scratching, painful — one down — caressing, so, so good — and lets her lead, lets those feelings overpower the Rush still poisonously running through his veins.

He dimly notices her leading him into a separate room and for a time everything is oblivion.

Afterwards, he cannot look her in the eyes. The blood from her scratches has run down his face and dried into a crust of red tears. His lips are swollen and hot, his body lethargic but thankfully not numb and euphoric like before.

Alona saved him.

One of her fingers touches his chin, lifting it up, making him face reality. Her expression is kind, understanding but sad. She is his first kiss, his first…well…at least there’s still something left, not all taken in this amalgamation of madness and emotion.

Why is she looking at him so kindly? Even though the initiative was hers, he still feels like he used her, feels dirty all around.

“Don’t worry, Ronik. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last.”

“But…”

“No buts, Ron,” she interrupts him firmly, lays a hand on his arm. It takes all he has not to flinch. “This was necessary. But there are other things that are necessary now too. You will wait here and I will call Professor Rakov.”

“Alona…”

“It is necessary, Ronik. He’s the one to call in such situations and he’s also able to prevent such things from happening again. I know,” she sighs, “I know that you don’t really trust authority figures, but, Ronik, the teachers are here to help you, especially in cases like this. You won’t get into trouble, I promise. He provoked you, and everyone knows that provoking those studying the Dark Arts — beginners especially — is the height of foolishness.”

It’s not necessary the truth. Ron did start it, kind of. But instead of arguing, he just nods quietly. Alona won’t be convinced and the deep shame that still echoes in the hollow corners of his mind does not let him try.

There will be consequences for this, he just knows it. Even if Alona tells him otherwise, he knows. If not here, then back in Britain. Malfoy’s father is a powerful man and Malfoy will tell him, no doubt. How many times did he threaten to do so at Hogwarts? Ron’s lost count.

Let fate decide and the dice fall where they may. He cannot do anything else.

Fate arrives quite quickly. Professor Rakov is serious when he steps into the room and closes the door behind him, but there is no accusation, no condemnation, just quiet control. He sits down at a small table next to the only window. Ron quickly follows. 

Tea, varenye and something that looks like strange donuts appear. Everything looks delicious. Ron watches Professor Rakov take a small bowl and pour himself some of the varenye from the main bowl, putting a bit into his tea too. Silently, Ron mimics his teacher though he’s not really hungry. He likes varenye. It’s not as thick as jam, but it’s sweeter and just as fruity. It’s also not as bright red as blood, thankfully. The tea scalds his tongue but the varenye soothes it with just the right sweetness. The heat is strong and fierce, chasing away the darkness of his actions. But the nightmare is not over yet, is it?

Professor Rakov breaks the silence, the tea party no longer a mirage in Ron’s mind.

“Try one of the pishki, Gospodin Weasley,” the teacher points at one of the donuts. “You will have never tried these before and you can get true pishki only in the greatest of cities — St. Petersburg.”

With relish Professor Rakov bites into a donut himself and hums with satisfaction.

It’s chewy and doughy and sweet from the powdered sugar sprinkled on top of it. Ron licks his lips.

“Good, aren’t they?”

Ron nods, reaching for another one. His hand freezes when he hears the teacher’s next words.

“Your Flesh Eater was beautifully cast.”

A compliment. It is said in such an approving, upbeat tone that Ron stares at his teacher — aghast. This was not a Quidditch Match he won, not homework he wrote and got a good grade on. He almost murdered a fellow kid.

“Eat another one, Gospodin Weasley,” the teacher urges him on and Ron mechanically obeys, stuffing the donut into his mouth, almost choking. He coughs, swallows, coughs again, then croaks, “Why?”

He sounds like a frog, probably looks like a lost duckling in the middle of the road searching for his mother.

Professor Rakov smiles. Ron’s never seen him smile before. It is a quiet, gentle thing, that smile, a wave of warmth that is oh so difficult to resist responding to.

“Because it was beautifully cast,” the teacher repeats, taking another sip from his tea. “And beauty should always be appreciated, Gospodin Weasley.”

“But…I…”

“Your Flesh Eater almost killed Gospodin Malfoy, yes,” Professor Rakov nods. It doesn’t sound dirty, wrong coming from his lips, just like a matter of life. Winter is cold, Weasleys almost kill Malfoys. “But in the end you did not. You voluntarily desisted.”

“I…Alona…she…” Ron stutters, feels the blush crowding upon his face, burning. He’s both cold and hot, grips his tea cup tightly, fears that it’ll break, and takes a scalding long sip from it. It burns.

“Yes, she told me what she did,” the teacher nods once again. “You should deem yourself a lucky young man that you have such a good friend. She managed to get to you before the Rush truly set in and the numbness left entirely and diverted your emotions to another venue. Not many have friends who will do that, choosing the path of pleasure instead of the path of pain.”

“The path of pleasure?” It certainly sounds better than the alternative. Still…

“Ah, yes. Forgive me, Gospodin Weasley. You are still a beginner. In most cases, the Dark Arts are taught in the following way: the preparatory course where the unsuited are recognized and it is suggested that they learn other magics. Then comes the theory, to prepare you thoroughly for what you will cast. It is essential, as you well know, to understand exactly what you are doing for what reason. That decreases the chances of mistakes and other unfortunate accidents. Then come the individual lessons to prepare and increase your resistance to the Rush. This is the stage you are in. We start you off with relatively harmless spells cast under controlled conditions. Your Flesh Eater is one of the strongest spells you know and it was cast during a very emotional moment. Usually, we try to have you cast something that strong while in an emotional state while in a controlled environment. It is called The Initiation. Your Initiation would have been next week on Tuesday. Unfortunately, Gospodin Malfoy was foolish enough to provoke you. That happens, though it happens rarely, as few are foolish enough to provoke beginner students of the Dark Arts. All know the risks.”

So it isn’t his fault. He tells himself that over and over again, tries to listen to the reasonable words of his teacher. The mantra echoes in his mind; he still feels guilty.

“And the paths?”

“Had you undergone the official Initiation, we would have given you a potion to drink that would have taken effect. It would have had the same role that your healer friend occupied, giving you the help and option to focus on something else than the Rush. Older students than you who are in long-standing relationships also sometimes use the method your friend used. It is basically a method to make your mind think that the Rush is not the best and most pleasurable way to go, thus making your resistance higher in the future when you learn more difficult and stronger spells.”

“And the path of pain?”

“The path of pain…some wizards and witches do not react as needed to pleasure. These people either give up the Dark Arts entirely or choose the path of pain. Agony can just as well redirect your mind from the Rush, telling it that the Rush means pain and for the pain to end you have to control and end the Rush. As you imagine it is a rather more unpleasant path, but also effective. Most people around Dark Arts beginners who find themselves around an uncontrolled Initiation choose this method to stop the caster. Your friend could have done that, but instead chose a more pleasant option for you.”

“I…see.” He doesn’t know what to think of this. He should be grateful. He is. But he still can’t feel comfortable thinking about it all. It’s better than pain, than agony, but…

“Have I answered all your questions? Ah, I see that I have. Now, you shall answer mine: what did you see?”

How? Ron feels himself begin to tremble, knows he is as pale as the snow outside. The image rises up slowly in his mind again, threatening to be just as vivid as before. No…no…

“What…what do you mean?” he croaks. It’s a bad attempt at a lie.

“Gospodin Weasley,” the teacher remains firm. “do not take me for a fool for I am not one. I see the signs in you. Not always but it happens that with those of powerful potential in the Dark Arts, especially at first, the mind so to say plays tricks on them. Powerful, evocative visions of a disturbing nature.”

“I…I cannot…”

It is a shadowy thing, that image. He fears, knows that should he say anything, should he talk about it, it will make it real. He doesn’t want it to be real. It isn’t. It’s not.

But the professor just nods, leans forward and Ron stills, not breathing, as the teacher’s wand gently settles on his forehead.

“Now, think about that vision from beginning to end. Good. Good.” He does as he’s bid, gasps and almost flinches as the wand pulls out a worm of light out of his head. He shivers and watches the thing writhe in a little bottle the professor put it in. The professor offers the bottle to him, but this time Ron flinches back.

“I see. This is only the memory of that vision, Gospodin Weasley. When you want it back, you will come to me. Until that time, I will keep it safely stored. I will not watch it without your permission.”

Why ever would he want it back? He knows what the vision is about, but he cannot see it anymore, even though he is aware that he was able to do so just moments ago.

“Now, we will talk about your future.”

_____________________________________

_This isn’t a diary. It isn’t. Fuck diaries. FUCK DIARIES._

_Blimey, what the bloody hell am I doing? Writing this? The mind healer told me to write down my thoughts ‘cause I can’t talk about it. As if I wanted to. At least the mind healer is a guy and not a girl. That would be awkward._

_I will burn this piece of parchment when I’m done writing. Why am I doing this? It won’t make things better or different or anything._

_The professor assigned me mandatory mind healing sessions with the school mind healer. I didn’t even know we had one to begin with. Do my brothers also have to go to something like this at their schools? It’s bloody inconvenient, it is. And a waste of time, if I burn this page after. The mind healer said it’ll be cat…catha…it’ll make me feel better._

_So that’s my future: mind healing lessons and even more sessions with the professor._

_They also made me move rooms. I’m now no newbie, they said. I’ve been assigned to the Wolves or, as most of the school calms them, the Bloody Knives. Creepy ass kind of name. It ain’t like the Houses in Hogwarts. It’s more like clubs in a school and club members bunking together. Something like that. I’m with the Dark Arts guys and everyone’s weary of us. Viktor got that look in his eyes when I told him, like he’s watching a werewolf that’s about to jump him._

_Reminded me of Mom._

_My club ain’t werewolves._

_I think._

_The leader guy sure is creepy though and looks just like you would expect a dark wizard to look, all pale and dark and sinister. They’ve assigned me a mentor, even though I’ve told ‘em I had one ‘cause I have Viktor. They insisted and then they put together my schedule with normal lessons and private lessons and club lessons and more complex etiquette lessons and mind healing sessions._

_Blimey, just writing that down sounds tiring. I need a break._

_I’ll be seeing Hermione at Charlie’s. I wonder how she is…how HE is…I can’t tell them what I did…almost did._

_Perhaps I should. It was her idea, after all. Durmstrang._

_I fear what she’ll say. That she’ll approve. Why do I want her to approve and fear it at the same time?_

_I remember her blazing eyes, her enthusiasm as she talked about our plan. She was ready to do it with open arms and that determination…she won’t have changed her mind, will she?_

_Bloody hell, am I fucked or what._

_I’m already in too deep and I’m seeing freaking visions that make me freak out on people even if people are Malfoy and that’s fucking crazy and nuts and just not not not not not a good idea…_

_Fuck._

_Good thing I’m burning this. Mom would wash my mouth out._

_Fuck._

_I feel worse now.  
_


End file.
